


alone

by QWERTYouAndMe



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Lowercase, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 18:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15442977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QWERTYouAndMe/pseuds/QWERTYouAndMe
Summary: the nagging voice in the back of his mind still whispers; they're only tolerating you because they feel sorry for you.they're only pretending to care because you're dependent on them.and you're dependent on them because without them you'd be alone.





	alone

the dim, bare lightbulb above their heads flickers hopelessly. trott wants to stand up and rip it out of the ceiling.   
across the table, ross has his hand on smith's knee, and smith is looking away, cheeks pink, trying to pull off an utterly unbothered demeanor. he is very clearly not unbothered. trott sips his coke.   
it isnt that he doesn't love this - ross booked them a surprise getaway, just them: no cameras, no friends, no fans, nothing. all they have is each other and 'The Essential Spanish Phrasebook' - he just feels out of place; a stranger as this relationship across the table blossoms before his eyes.  
the place they're staying is nice; a squat, sturdy villa in the middle of nowhere, no noise, no neighbours, no interruptions. the lights of the far-off city shine like discarded jewels amongst the hills.   
there's a reasonably sized pool and a reasonably sturdy pool table. the house itself screams start of a horror film: all over flickering lights and out-of-time clocks that tick too fast and chime at the wrong hour.   
when they'd first arrived, smith had walked with trott down the long, wooden halls, suitcase whirring behind him, and pointed to a painting of a rather solemn looking couple on the wall. "ghosts," he'd said simply, and trott had nodded, and then smith had pushed him against the wall right next to that picture and kissed him till his head spun.  
   
that was yesterday. things are different now.  
trott isnt sure how, or why, or if he wants to know the answer to either of those questions, but things are different.   
ross has his hand on smiths knee, and smith is looking away, cheeks pink, trying to pull off an utterly unbothered demeanor. he is very clearly not unbothered.  
somewhere, deep down, this bothers trott.  
  
he's avoided every question they've thrown at him so far. the fact that they've taken all of his answers with no further inquiry makes him feel sick: either he's lied to them enough for it to be convincing or they don't actually care about the answers - like they're asking as a courtesy. trott isn't sure which one of those he should feel guiltier for thinking.  
  
he lies. not about big things, but he still lies: he isn't ever 'just tired', he was never just 'zoning out'. too often he's lost in his thoughts and doesn't want to say anything. he wonders if they think he's been telling the truth this whole time and feels bad.   
he knows he shouldn't, but he still lies: he is a liar. can you trust a liar? do they trust him? is he trustworthy? he doesn't know.   
on the other hand, he knows they care. they're his friends and his lovers, and they care. but the nagging voice in the back of his mind still whispers; ' _they're only tolerating you because they feel sorry for you._

_they're only pretending to care because you're dependent on them._

_and you're dependent on them because without them you'd be alone._

  
_without them you'd be alone._  
 _without them you'd be alone._  
 _you'd be alone._  
 _alone._  
 _alone._  
  
_**alone**.'_  
  
he wakes up to a pitch black room, shaking and sweating, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. smith lays beside him, heavy and warm with sleep, and trott wants to curl into his side and weep.   
but no. 

it wouldn't help.  
  
he stands up and almost slips on the rug, only barely makes it to the bathroom without falling over. he stares at himself in the mirror and sees a stranger. this is not him; this is not chris trott. this is not his face or his body, these are not his arms or legs or eyes or ears; this is not his mouth or nose or skin or hair. this is not chris trott, this is someone else. 

he braces himself against the sink and retches.   
  
the nervous, happy cicadas that chirp in the trees at night are his only company as he walks down the hill toward the cliff. the cliff is technically just a road with a sheer, high drop off the side, but the view is pretty, and the road is seldom used. he sits on the edge and feels numb. he isn't sure how long he sits there in the cool air, somewhere between night and day. things are different now. things are strange. he longs for ross or smith, longs for someone or something that would comfort him. he longs for something to pull him away from this ledge before he leans too far and topples over. the sun, rising behind the hill directly in front of him, peeks up from out of the dark and douses him in warm, orange light. he winces. one, two, three, four, five cars pass all at once, skidding too fast around the corner.  
and then everything is still.   
everything is still for a long time after that. trott can't decide if he wants to cry or if he actually is crying; maybe he's awake, maybe he's dreaming. at this point, he's unsure he's even alive. maybe he's fallen down the cliff and now he lies at the bottom, unconcious, dreaming all this up.   
maybe.  
there are footsteps behind him on the road. he closes his eyes as they get closer, closer, closer, and then stop.  
"chris," comes a soft voice, and it's ross, and trott turns around to face him. they look at each other for a long time, and then trott is sure he's crying because his chest aches and his vision blurs with hot, shameful tears. ross crouches with him on the edge of the cliff anf gathers him up in his arms and holds him for a long time. they sit in silence and watch the sun climb the rest of the way out from behind the hill until it shines down on both of them, casting warm light on their faces. trott buries his face in ross' neck and tries not to cry anymore, because he's an adult, and he's okay.   
"i know you're not okay," says ross, as if he'd read his thoughts. "come on," he says, and stands up, offering trott a gentle hand. "let's go home."


End file.
